


these words bear my scars (paint your love on my skin)

by WindyRein



Series: oh there you are; i've been looking for you [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Claudia Stilinski Feels, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Law Student Peter Hale, M/M, POV Peter Hale, Pre-Slash, The Author Regrets Nothing, The things you write on your skin show up on your soulmate's, Time Skips, implied child neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindyRein/pseuds/WindyRein
Summary: One day butterflies and childish codes change toI'm sorry you're meant for a murdererand he won't realize for years how much that changed his life.





	these words bear my scars (paint your love on my skin)

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how long this has been mostly finished but since my muse wanted me to write _everything_ before the wedding it took me (and my muse) a while to finally admit defeat and the fact that writing all of that wouldn't really have added anything.
> 
> And not to make things too easy... :D Let's say it's impossible to intentionally tell your soulmate your whereabouts over message-on-skin :)
> 
> Also, Peter doesn't really like the Sheriff, so his viewpoint may be biased.

He's horrified when the first thing that ever appears on his skin is a childish doodle of a butterfly _(it's charming, so very charming in its simplicity)_.

He's interested when the first writing that ever appears on his arm is in Cyrillic _(it's intriguing how the text doesn't make sense, even when the alphabet does)_.

He's smug _(and tickled pink)_ when he cracks the code his soulmate has been writing in. Such a smart little thing _(and his mate is little considering the age difference is at least ten years)_.

One day out of the blue, when he estimates his soulmate to be ten or eleven, he wakes up to _I killed my mom last night_ on his inner thigh. No codes, no ciphers, just plain old, boring English. Under it faintly, like his mate didn't want for him to see it, in a shaky hand is _I'm sorry you're meant for a murderer._

That defines the rest of Peter's life but in that moment he's just panicked and absolutely furious at whoever got that idea in his soulmate's head and writes down the first thing he can think of, _It's not your fault._

When he gets to class, there's _You don't know that._ on his wrist. It stays there the whole day and accuses Peter of not being able to do anything for his intended but he's not having this conversation where just anyone could walk in on it just by looking over his shoulder.

He waits 'till he's at his dorm _(thank the moon for one-person dorm rooms)_ before he starts writing on his arm.

_It's not your fault._

_Your mom was sick, right? Wanting to make her feel better or stop her suffering isn't wrong._

And once more, just to make sure the message is actually driven home, _It's not your fault, sweet thing._

Nothing appears for half an hour, so he goes to his homework and when he breaks for a snack an hour later, the back of his hand has _How do you know she was sick?_ written in red ink.

He snorts at the suspicion before writing on the underside of his arm, _Did you expect me not to crack your code, darling?_

He can only imagine the little thing blushing in embarrassment.

There's a long pause before, _She had frontotemporal dementia._ slowly appears under his question _(and it's clearly reluctance, not spelling difficulties that slow his sweetheart down)_.

He doesn't know what that is or what to say, so he writes the only thing that makes sense, _Thank you for telling me._

***

He uses his next free period to research frontotemporal dementia. He's not sure what to think of it all. Three different subgroups under one diagnosis and his intended hadn't said anything that might clue him as to which one it was and... for once in his life, he cares how his words might affect someone else.

(he really, really hopes it wasn't the behavioural variant)

He hesitates for a good while _(three classes and one study group)_ before quickly scribbling _I'm sorry. That must have been awful._ on his thigh before (he chickens out) rushing to meet his classmates for a "fun" night out.

He comes back home to _It was what it was. Not like she was herself at the end._ and winces. Behavioural variant it was then. He takes a deep breath and tries to think of what a ten-year-old would need to hear in a situation like this. He comes up blank and just goes with _That still doesn't mean it wasn't your mom. I can't even start to imagine what it must have felt like to see her lose herself little by little._

When he wakes up the next morning irritated with the smell of strangers and stale beer clinging to his clothes, there's _You're the first one to say that._ on his left arm in maybe the smallest handwriting he's ever seen. Then under it _Everyone just says they're sorry and how she's in a better place now._ appears even while he watches.

Something cracks in Peter's chest and his wolf wants to leave and hunt down their mate and curl around them to keep them safe from the world for all of eternity.

_I just miss her so much._ gets written slowly on his inner wrist.

He doesn't know what to say to that.

***

He's reading through the court transcript for the case they're going to study in class the next day. His brain isn't really taking much of it in anymore. Just some scumbag beating on his wife and saying how much she had it coming when he finally cracked her skull open and killed her. Peter's getting really tired of seeing these kinds of stories as his homework. The kind of people's stories who don't have even an ounce of regret or sympathy for anyone else.

(he conveniently forgets, he's one of those people most of the time)

He's almost asleep when he turns the page and takes in the first words the scumbag's kid says. _"I killed my mom. That's what dad's always said, so it has ta be true."_

He sits up violently enough that the students around him look at him a little askance. One of them, a classmate whose name he can't be bothered to remember, even asks if he's alright. He just waves his hand in something like acknowledgement but he can't take his eyes from the words.

_"I killed my mom. That's what dad's always said."_

That... That could be his soulmate. He hasn't got any indications that the surviving parent is blaming their kid but grief does funny things to people. Grief and time and resentment at the doctors who couldn't save the mom.

_"I killed my mom. That's what dad's always said."_

It's like an endless echo in his head and he rips his sleeve up and scrambles for a pen before writing _How's your dad taking things?_ in a hasty scrawl he'd sneer at any other time. He thinks he might hold his breath until letters start slowly appearing under the question spelling out an answer he's not happy with but that isn't as bad as he'd feared.

_Dad's working a lot. Usually it's days or nights, so we can be home at the same time but Heather's mom still has to take me to school most days. But it's okay, he's just doing it cause of the bills._

He wrinkles his nose at the implications and sneers a little at this man he doesn't know.

It's not until later that he realizes exactly how much of an issue he's going to have with his soulmate's father.

_"I killed my mom. That's what dad's always said."_

(it gnaws at the back of his brain like a slowly-spreading disease)

***

_I managed to make spaghetti bolognese without burning anything!_ waits for him one day almost a year after he vowed to himself that no child he might defend or whose parent he might prosecute will ever end up with the same kind of awful ending as that one he'd studied in that library when he had his epiphany.

He stares at the words and blinks wondering why exactly his soulmate would be making spaghetti bolognese in the first place. He doesn't want to ruin his soulmate's mood though, so he only writes _That sounds delicious. Maybe you can make it to me someday._ in reply.

(he files this knowledge away in the ever-growing list of grievances he has against his intended's father)

***

"- - and it's so awful what happened to the Sheriff's wife." He snaps to attention at that. His mate had mentioned a station before. He doesn't know why he thinks this is connected but he feels certain it is.

"What do you mean _what happened to the Sheriff's wife_?" Peter can practically hear Talia blinking in confusion at his sudden interjection when he usually zones out not ten minutes into these check-up calls his sister insists on making.

"Haven't I told you? Well, it's all a bit awful really. She had some kind of dementia that made her at times forget and at times behave like a completely different person, you know. The most awful part, though, is that her son was the only one in her room when she died, the poor thing. And the Sheriff - -"

Talia keeps prattling on but he can't concentrate on her words anymore. The pieces have slotted into place in his head with an audible snap. Now he just needs to figure out how to get a meeting, preferably without Talia announcing everything to the whole county.

***

The Sheriff stinks of whiskey and coffee and not of home, not of _Stiles_ and Peter bares his teeth. Things are, apparently, exactly as he imagined.

(he hopes. he hopes they aren't worse.)

***

Stiles is a bright child full of laughter. Well, after Cora had accidentally-on-purpose bowled into him and started a wrestling match with him.

Peter hadn't missed the twinkle of mischief in his eyes though, couldn't miss the way his mate's eyes had darkened and his lip had curled at Derek whining at Talia about something or other.

Yes, his boy knows the preciousness of family.

***

It's when everyone's outside and Talia's shouting at Cora about climbing trees or something like it that Stiles comes to him.

"You're my soulmate." He states it like fact, like there's nothing else that could be the truth. Peter had been wondering if the boy had noticed the tiny star he'd drawn on the inside of his wrist that morning.

"Yes, I am." He waits to see how the boy will react.

"You don't like my dad." and Peter can't stop the slight curl of his lip at that.

"No, I don't. I don't think he treats you right."

Stiles just nods and sits beside him at the table _(there's something awful and adorable about how his feet can't reach the floor)_. "He's...", Stiles trails off. "He doesn't deal well."

There's another moment of silence. "The house reminds him too much of Mom and," he gestures at his face, "I look almost literally like a young, male version of her."

More silence. "It doesn't really help."

Peter can't stand it anymore. He grabs Stiles and pulls him into his lap, wraps his arms around his heart and presses his cheek to the boy's hair.

Stiles is still as a statue for a long moment.

But finally he melts into the hug.

(peter won't tell anyone about the tear stains on his shirt)

***

Everything is white. From the flowers to the seats to their clothes to the light of the moon. The forest surrounding them is a dark and familiar shadow.

And there with their friends and family watching and Mother Moon bearing witness they press their foreheads together and promise forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Missed tags are appreciated and reviews are loved. :)
> 
> If you're wondering about the exact size of the age difference, that'd be sixteen years.
> 
> And as always, if you have questions, I'll be happy to answer. :)
> 
> Also, [tumblr](http://poutingtrolltroll.tumblr.com/), if you wanna see me slowly lose my mind over writing the fucking monster of a sequel to [handler protocols](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11037255).


End file.
